


Desperate

by MajorTrouble



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Meetings, M/M, Vamp!John, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2116353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something strange and terrifying happened to John Watson whilst he was in Afghanistan. Now he must adjust back to civilian life in his beloved London with this new 'illness' trying to dictate his next move. Will he be able to handle it on his own? Or will he go mad in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnlocked-starkid](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=johnlocked-starkid).



> Super-late entry for Exchangelock for the lovely (and patient) johnlocked-starkid. I hope you enjoy this! I will try to post a new chapter bi-weekly.

John remembered pain. He remembered how it had coursed through him. He remembered how it had set everything under his skin on fire. He especially remembered the white hot sensation of it spreading into his brain, climbing up his spine and pushing up behind his eyes. He remembered screaming.

 

Sleep had not been a refuge. Not really. The pain found him even there. It was like an animal with its teeth set in him, ravaging him from the inside. His dreams were filled to the brim with it, and often as not he woke himself up with his own screaming. There were the drugs, too, being pushed into his scorched veins. They did little to curb the pain itself, but seemed to blur the edges of his ability to deal with it. Once he was given something stronger and it whited out everything, sending him into a dreamless sleep so deep the pain couldn’t find him. It was agony coming back from that.

 

He babbled and begged. He needed something to stop, and he didn’t care if it was himself or the pain. An interminable time later, something else was dripped into an IV and this, finally, pushed the pain down. He sighed, grateful for the reprieve. It wasn’t enough to make the pain disappear altogether, but it blunted it, making it bearable, and it was enough that his mind started piecing itself back together.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

The room was a motif of blue. The walls were painted so pale a shade as to seem white. The curtains that drifted in the breeze were a darker shade, rolling gently back and forth, like waves against white sand. Even the sheets were blue, though the colour was fading from repeated washes. Light trickled in from under the closed door, and although it was night outside, every detail of the room was visible.

 

John Watson took in his surroundings through clear eyes. The hellish pain remained, though, centered on his shoulder and, to a lesser extent, his right leg. When he shifted to sit up, weak and stiff though he was, he could feel the pain shifting with him, like it was caged somehow, waiting for a chance to rise up and take him over again. He groaned softly, rubbing one hand over his face.

 

The preceding weeks had happened, he was sure of it, but there was no tangible memory. Every time he reached for it, the thoughts skittered around past the fringes of his mind, lost now in some horrible, pain soaked haze. There had been questions, and a great deal of shouting and then, nothing.

 

He reached for the water glass on the table beside him, taking slow sips to try and ease his parched tongue. To his great annoyance, the water only made him thirstier. It also made him aware of the pressure his bladder was exerting on his internal organs. Curious that he wasn’t sporting a catheter, he carefully he eased himself out of the bed, aware of the IV still attached to his arm. Dragging the IV pole with him, its wheels that worked about as well as a supermarket trolley’s, he made his way to the tiny bathroom. He didn’t bother with the light as he relieved himself and washed his hands. As he was making his way back, the door to his room opened, nearly blinding him with the intensity of the light that came through. He squeezed his eyes shut quickly, bringing one hand up to block it out, and grimaced through his teeth.

 

“Doctor Watson, you should not be moving around,” a clipped, cultured voice spoke. The door was mercifully closed quickly and John sighed as the light became more bearable. The man that stood in the room with him was tall, thin, and dressed in a military uniform. He was clean shaven, too which made the hard lines of his square jawline stand out further. Black hair was cut close to his head, but not buzzed, and his dark skin was made even darker by the crisp khaki of his uniform. The badge and insignia indicated he was with the RAMC, and a doctor, but the other badge that decorated his upper left arm was unfamiliar to John. “Please,” he said, indicating the bed. “It would be advisable for you to rest more.”

 

John grinned wryly. “I feel like I’ve been asleep for years.” But he made his way back to the bed, still pulling the wobbly-wheeled IV with him. Once he was settled, the doctor brought forward his chart and, to John’s surprise, handed it to him.

 

“Please,” the doctor said again, nodding to the chart.

 

John raised his eyebrows in surprise before perusing the chart. All in all, he seemed to be in good health; at least, that’s what his biometrics now indicated. He’d originally been admitted about three weeks ago. Injury to the left shoulder; bullet wound. Presented with pain, fever, delirium. Some sort of infection, then. Regular course of treatment with antibiotics had been ineffective in the field at the time of injury, so he’d been transferred here. Testing had indicated an unknown pathogen. Doctor Motters had been called in as a specialist in the area and identified it as a new strain of virus, rarely found in humans. Caused unbearable pain as it changed the physiology of the infected, relieved only by medically-induced coma and large blood transfusions. No known cure.

 

Once he was finished reading, John looked back up at the man standing patiently beside him. “Doctor Motters,” he said, to which the other inclined his head. “If the only treatment is medically-induced coma and transfusions, how am I awake?”

 

“There is an experimental treatment that I had originally tried out on several animal subjects as well as myself, and I had every confidence you would respond to it,” Dr. Motters replied, calmly, avoiding eye contact and instead glancing at the IV still taped to John’s arm.

 

“What exactly is the nature of the physiological changes?” John asked slowly, his concern growing.

 

Dr. Motters ducked his chin to his chest, shifting uncomfortably. “I am not sure, that in your state, it would be wise to disclose that.”

 

Anger rose quickly from where it was usually buried, deep in his mind. It suffused his skin with an electric tingle, tinging the edge of his vision with red. He gritted his teeth against the heady buzz and glared at the other doctor. Motters finally met his gaze and John was shocked at the deep purple eyes that locked with his. “That’s not right,” he breathed.

 

Motters looked away quickly and sighed. “This is all going to sound quite strange, but I assure you it is very real.” He paused for a moment, obviously considering his next words carefully. “You have likely noticed you have more sensitivity to light. The photoreceptors in your eyes are more like that of a nocturnal creature, say, a cat. You will get used to it, but daylight will be especially painful for awhile.”

 

John nodded slowly as he took in this information. Given how bright the light from the hallway had been, he could believe that.

 

“You will also notice that you are stronger than before. Muscle mass increased by about ten to twenty five percent, elasticity in joints allows for great flexibility and range of movement. There is also a spike in metabolism, though you should not notice it as anything other than an increase in thirst,” Dr Motters continued as if reading from a checklist, or lecturing medical students on some particularly banal affliction. John, for his part, was beginning to think just how ridiculous this virus was. Typical viruses wreaked havoc on the body, causing all sorts of problems without any benefits. This one was making his body stronger and sleeker. There must be some kind of drawback to all of this. “However, water will no longer satisfy.”

 

He jerked his head back up, staring at Dr Motters. “What do you mean?”

 

Dr Motters gestured to the empty cup on the bedside table. “You already know. Drinking only serves to make the thirst more intense.”

 

John’s brow furrowed as he thought about this. How even though he’d drained the whole glass of water, and could still taste it on the back of his tongue, the parched sensation remained. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I know this is going to be hard to hear, and probably a bit surreal, but you have heard of vampirism?”

 

He laughed out loud at the suggestion. “Like, what, Dracula? Anne Rice novels? That sort of thing?”

 

Dr Motters blew out a breath in derision. “Hardly. But if that is your only reference, then yes.” He was suddenly all movement, hands clasped behind his back, pacing in the narrow space around the bed as John watched. “There have been documented cases of vampirism throughout history. Vlad Dracul was one of them, though stories are vague at best and outright lies at worst. Elizabeth Bathory is another case. She was said to bathe in the blood of virgins in order to maintain a youthful appearance, though that seems more like fear mongering by an uneducated public. Rasputin was also said to have developed it whilst in close proximity to the Romanovs, which I believe is why he was killed.” Motters paused for a moment, looking John straight in the eye again. “Most cases since World War I have been overseen by a small group of specialised scientists and doctors from across the globe. Necessary, since it was developed as a biological weapon by the Russians.” He pointed to the patch on his sleeve. “There are few of us left now as cases have dwindled, though we keep an eye out. The only ones I knew about were in a few small towns across Europe. And myself. And now you.”

 

“Me?” he spluttered, his brain still trying to catch up with the flood of information. “Wait. You?”

 

The doctor nodded. “Whilst I was deployed in Afghanistan. I was investigating the possibility of the virus being present in a remote village.” His grin was quick and anything but friendly. “Turned out I was correct. Ambushed and bitten and left for dead.”

 

John’s mind was suddenly inundated with a flurry of images. Being on patrol in the twilight, heading back to camp. A sudden ambush and then the blinding pain that knocked all subsequent thoughts from his head. Presently, he cried out in anguish as the caged pain shifted again, flaring out through his nerves before settling back down to throb sullenly in his shoulder.

 

Dr Motters remained impassive as John collected himself and looked up again, trying to breathe normally. “The pain will always be there, but I have found a way of controlling it.” He pointed over John’s shoulder at the IV drip. “Once over the initial transformation phase, a daily injection is all it takes.”

 

John considered this for a few moments. It was a lot to take in. Especially the bit where something he had considered cool and entirely fictitious as a kid was actually real. And suddenly happening to him. It was in that moment that a  thought suddenly occurred to him. “What about the whole blood craving thing?” he asked.

 

The other man nodded. “I wondered when you would come to that. Inasmuch as it is the only substance your body can digest, that is not quite true. You can still eat as you normally would and you will still have the same bodily functions, but you won’t metabolize things in the same way. I would suggest a diet rich  in iron, of course, but the drug I have created should bank the thirst you feel.” He shook his head, almost to himself. “There is no way to cure it, nothing that I have found, at least, but the drug helps.”

 

“What is in this?” John asked, gesturing at the IV. It was a clear fluid as far as he could see, but that meant little.

 

“High concentrations of plasma - which is where your nutritional component comes in - and hemoglobin. I have added an antiviral that keeps the virus from replicating too quickly.” He hesitated. “There is also a great deal of oxytocin as the virus seems to feed on it, and secrete dopamine.” Dr Motters shook his head. “I am still not sure why. There has always been some romantic notion of the person who  is bitten feeling a bond towards the one who bit them, but I am not entirely sure that’s true. Even if the victim lives, there can only really exist resentment and anger there.” He fell silent then, and his thoughts seemed to be leading him elsewhere.

 

John still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of all this. But he focused on the here and now, treating himself as someone with a condition, as opposed to some monstrous disease.

 

“So, what happens now?” he ventured, staring down at the IV in his arm.

 

“You will be released in two days time. I have seen to it. There was some conjecture that you might be a threat to society, or some other such nonsense, but I convinced the higher ups otherwise.”

 

“Hmm,” John grunted.

 

“There is some available housing that your pension will cover, and the drugs will be free of charge, of course. You are free to choose what you want to do with the rest of your life,” Dr Motters told him, setting his hand hesitantly on the side of John’s bed. “If you need anything, I can help. If you need to speak to someone, I am here,” he continued, though his voice was decidedly embarrassed.

 

John smiled brittley. Everything he had ever wanted had ended that day in Afghanistan. A day he couldn’t even remember. What else was there for him to do?

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

The flat was dismal. Despite John’s heightened visual senses - as well as his nasal senses, which Dr Motters had neglected to tell him about - everything reflected back to him in shades of grey. The tiny room contained a bed, a desk, and a small bookshelf. He shared the bathroom down the hall with five other desperate men. At least the kitchen was his own, despite the peeling paint and rusting, calcified taps. John  wrapped the tubing around his arm, feeling for a vein in the crook of his elbow, as he huffed out another sigh as to the dire situation he’d found himself in.

 

Despite what Dr Motters had said, it had taken four days to be discharged from the army hospital and into this government-run tenement. His foot locker had arrived before him, and currently sat in the middle of the room like some long-forgotten treasure chest. Rummaging through  it, he had been surprised to find his full dress uniform, as well as his army-issue side-arm. He had checked the weapon methodically, noticing that although it wasn’t loaded, there were two clips shoved into his left boot. A note tucked into the barrel had been from his commanding officer, telling him to take care of himself. John had grinned briefly at that. The man had warned him countless times that he needed to keep his head down, stop being so reckless. John had countered that his recklessness had saved at least three of the men in their unit.  

 

“Couldn’t even save myself, this time,” John said quietly to the empty room.

 

Daylight had started streaming through the window as he finished his morning injection. Two weeks in the flat and John had finally begun to be able to tolerate the light. It probably helped that London was perpetually dark this time of year; storm clouds always threatened on the horizon as dreary fall rain gave way to winter’s sleet. For the past few days, he’d forced himself outside for a  walk through the park. Though his leg pained him, there were no visible marks to be seen. Only his shoulder, carefully covered in a vest, shirt, jumper, and finally jacket, bore witness to what he really was. That, and his eyes. They had changed to a deep purple, an unnatural hue that was more pronounced in the dark. When light hit them, they changed again to a muddy blue.

 

He closed and locked the door behind him as he left his flat. With a cane in his right hand, he made his way down the three flights of stairs and out into the shocking cold of the late fall wind. The streets were filled with people, shoulders hunched up to their ears, eyes cast down at the dirty pavement. John looked out over them and felt a sudden, frightening surge of anger at the complacent humanity around him. He could almost hear their thoughts as they scuttled by him like terrified rabbits, praying he didn’t notice them in the crowd. It gave him a sense of heady gratification: he the hunter, they the prey.

 

John shook his head sharply to clear it of these thoughts. That was ridiculous! He was human just like them. Despite the daily injections, he was human. He was human.

 

Wasn’t he?

 

Trying to get away from the awful thoughts, he forced himself out into the crowd, heading for a nearby walking path that wound  around the edges of the park. Once away from the oppressive crowd, John’s anger slowly dissipated and he thought again about what he would do next. There was a hospital near the center of the city, which he had had an interview at yesterday. St Bartholomew’s was a good choice for a retired army doctor. He could see his share of traumas and sniffly noses there, but nothing near the level of stress he would encounter whilst in the field. He could treat patients without fear of an attack, and he could take him time doing it.

 

He played over his interview in his mind, thinking about how eager the woman was who’d asked him questions. She had seemed surprised that he wanted to work in the busy chaos of the hospital, as opposed to some quiet clinic. John had shrugged, saying that his surgeon’s skills could be put to better use than in a fussy clinic setting. She’d accepted this with a rueful smile, telling him about how she’d become the hospital administrator when all she’d wanted to do was work in an A&E.

 

“Life gives us a weird go-round now and again,” she’d said, glancing over his CV again. “But I’m glad it’s brought you to us.”

 

Thinking back on it, John felt a bit of pride at that remark, but also a sense of doom. Was this what he was meant to do now? As bogged down in pity and self-loathing as he was at that moment, John didn’t spot the man who was barrelling down the path towards him until it was nearly too late. Instinctively, he sidestepped out of the way, nimbly avoiding a collision with the pale, lanky man who ran past him, all the while yelling incoherently at the two police officers in bright yellow jackets running full tilt behind him.

 

“Stop! Sherlock!” one of the officers yelled. Thinking quickly, John lashed out with his left hand, catching the fleeing coattails and yanking back hard. The tall stranger yelped once before coming to a complete stop and landing rather inelegantly in a sprawl on his back. John kept hold of the coat as the two officers approached.

 

“Oy, thanks, mate,” said an older man, his breath coming fast as he stopped in front of John. “Mad bastard.”

 

“I’ll take it from here,” the other said, flipping the gasping man over onto his front as she handcuffed him. John stepped back and let the two drag the tall man upright. Unconsciously, John pulled air in through his nose, scenting carefully.

 

Sherlock - and if that was his actual name, John felt a stab of pity - was as high as a kite. Cocaine, by the dilated pupils and manic look in his eyes, but also by the signature scent he gave off. Like battery acid and molding roses. John felt his eyes water a bit at the intensity of it.

 

“But she’s going to get away! If she boards that flight to America you will never see her again and all my work will be in vain! She killed her two sons!” Sherlock was yelling now that he had his breath back.

 

The older officer was immediately on his mobile, calling for cars to be sent to Heathrow. “And don’t bollocks it up! I want this woman found. You’ve got the description and her aliases. Yes. Focus on flights leaving for the US.”

 

“New York!” Sherlock interjected, pulling free of the other officer. “Lestrade! New York!” he hissed again.

 

Lestrade grimaced, pressing the mobile more firmly to his ear. “Ya. You heard him. New York.” He rang off and glared at the ridiculously tall man. “I’ve had about enough of you. Donovan! Take him back to the car. And check him for lock picks this time.”

 

“You do know he’s taken an exceptional amount of cocaine,” John spoke quietly. “I’m not sure he shouldn’t be sent straight to a hospital.”

 

Lestrade swung around, apparently surprised that John was still standing there. “Oh ya? What are you, a doctor?” he laughed.

 

“Actually yes,” John replied, casually taking out his army ID card and handing it to the officer.

 

Lestrade studied the card and then blinked at him a moment before huffing out a laugh. “Just my lucky day. Go on, then. Have a look at him,” he said, handing the ID back. “Tell me if I should be throwing him into the tank or the A&E.”

 

John nodded and turned to Sherlock. The man stood stock still as John approached, taking his wrist and checking his pulse. It was fast, but still strong. He glanced up to check his pupils, taking a torch out of his pocket.

 

“Oh,” huffed Sherlock quietly as their eyes locked. “Your - “ but he cut himself off as John frowned.

 

The doctor in him performed the checks quickly, watching his pupils as they reacted slowly to the light. The other part of him moved in its cage and he found himself breathing through his mouth so as not to be overwhelmed by the scent of cocaine and blood.

 

“He’s alright,” John stated, stepping back and pocketing the torch again. Mustering up his courage, he looked Sherlock square in the eye again. “Do this often?” he asked pleasantly.

 

Sherlock pulled against the handcuffs and leaned down so his mouth was near John’s ear. “Not really. Just when I need to focus. Why are your eyes purple?”

 

John took another step back, nodding to Lestrade. “Tank, I suppose. He should be coming down in the next hour or so. Plenty of water, though.”

 

“Thanks,” Lestrade grinned. “It’s nice to have a doctor’s opinion, doctor -?”

 

“Watson,” John replied.

 

Lestrade nodded and turned to Sherlock. “Get going, Holmes. A few hours at the station, then I’ll see about those charges.”

 

The two officers hustled Sherlock off down the path as John watched. The ragged mop of curls on the tall man’s head bounced as he swung his head around, twisting his neck to look at John again before they disappeared through the gates of the park.

  
John continued his walk, though now he had something new to puzzle over. Who was this man that the police would listen to him even whilst high? His curiosity for curiosity’s sake was finally taking hold, and he was relieved to have found something to focus on aside from his own self pity. He vowed to figure out what was going on. A little mystery to keep himself sane - human - for a bit longer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyday when I wake up I get at least one note stating someone has left me kudos and I am grateful for it. Thank-you all so much for reading and for your patience waiting for the rest of this story. Come see me on tumblr sometime if you like! It's not very fandom based, but I have a lot of fun: major-trouble.tumblr.com

It wasn’t until several days later, after a long day shift at the hospital, that John had a chance to set down at his brand new laptop - a gift from his sister-in-law - and start searching up the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes. He found several Daily Mail articles containing unflattering accusations, as well as one Guardian article extolling his genius. The latter was in reference to him solving a five year old cold case that broke up a human trafficking ring operating out of an abandoned warehouse near the Thames.

 

Pretty impressive when the only connecting evidence between the murder and the warehouse was a tiny piece of dirt embedded in the victim’s gums.

 

There was also a ridiculous website titled “The Science of Deduction” which apparently Sherlock wrote himself. John read every entry, incredulous at the pompous writing and the equally pompous answers to any comments on his cases.

 

He also found himself deeply intrigued. How could a man with such an obviously brilliant mind find solace in an illicit substance whilst still solving crimes? John shook his head in amazement. Well. He would have to keep an eye on this one. Perhaps he would be able to figure out what made him tick. Or at least try to keep him away from the drugs. The mere memory of that smell nearly made him gag.

 

John abruptly shook his head. What was he even thinking? This man was a stranger to him. Intriguing, sure, even a little frightening, but completely unknown. He sighed as he opened up his own blog in another tab, going over his last entry in an attempt to settle his mind. There was little enough there, what with recent events, and whilst he enjoyed the writing, it seemed a tedious task to jot down the few medical cases he encountered at the clinic that were of interest to him.

 

He frowned, however, as he noticed a comment replying to his latest entry. It had been a simple enough case; the woman involved had been stabbed repeatedly by her ex-girlfriend and had required a blood transfusion as well as nearly a hundred stitches. John had actually found himself breathing heavily by the end of it. The smell of the blood - like a mixture of cinnamon and black tea - had been overwhelming. Towards the end he could feel the pain steadily increasing, turning his vision darker and causing the thirst to settle back onto his tongue. It had taken a great deal of concentration and focus to finish sewing the woman up, and he had distracted himself by asking the EMTs questions about how they’d found her, and if the other woman had been caught. Once he’d packed her off to a private room, the police had come looking for him, asking about extent of injuries and he’d filled out their paperwork, describing the knife wounds and scratches. It had been a pretty open and shut case.

 

What about the victim’s dogs? the comment read. It had been posted yesterday, almost immediately after he’d finished writing up the entry.

 

John stared at the blinking cursor for several minutes. Dogs? What dogs? he replied. How odd that someone would make such an observation out of the blue.

 

Although, now that he thought about it, he suddenly remembered another scent that had wound its way through the blood and faint traces of shampoo. He hadn’t known what it was at the time, but now he wondered.

 

Shaking his head, he got up and started the automatic process of making tea. Despite his new dietary requirements, John still found himself craving a nice cup of tea. It must be the familiarity of it. Merely a comforting routine that can be kept up and fallen back on, no matter what his situation, as no matter how much he drank, it never assuaged the thirst. Only the daily injections kept it at bay, caged tightly with his pain.

 

Once the tea was set to steep, and he was settled back in front of his laptop, John was not at all surprised to find another comment awaiting him.

 

The victim had three dogs. Something happened to them, it read simply.

 

How could you possibly know that? John replied, curiosity getting the best of him.

 

Suddenly his phone chimed from its place on his nightstand. John frowned at it before getting up and retrieving it, seeing the indication of one new message from an unknown number. He thumbed through the security password and pulled the message up.

 

A simple matter of deduction. Her trousers were covered in their hair, as was her flat.

 

John’s frown deepened. A matter of deduction? That sounded familiar. His phone chimed again.

 

Your flat is rather dismal. Perhaps we can meet somewhere nicer?

 

His eyebrows shot into his hairline as he stared at the message. How was he supposed to respond to that?

 

“Bloody Sherlock Holmes,” he breathed, swiftly tapping out a reply. You have no idea. Cheers for that. Where? It didn’t occur to him until after he’d pressed send that he didn’t actually know how the other man had gotten hold of his mobile’s number. And now he’d just confirmed it was his.

 

Angelo’s, came the reply, followed by an address. At least the madman had chosen a public place. Tonight, if possible. Seven?

 

Fine, John typed in, hesitating only momentarily before resolutely hitting send. Well, he’d wanted to keep tabs on the man, find out more about him. He supposed now was his chance.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

John arrived several minutes after seven, the result of his bad luck and inability to hail a cab.He’d had to walk several streets over to find a proper cab stand in order to get to Angelo’s and his inner self was seething. The anger flashed in his eyes and coursed through his nerves until everything felt slightly warm again. It was rather soothing, in its own way, and made his vision and hearing sharper, but still very frightening. He tamped it down as best he could before paying the cabbie and heading into the crowded restaurant.

 

He took a deep breath, and immediately latched onto the lingering scent of battery acid and old roses, except now it was tempered with something else, probably the man’s own odour, which tickled John’s nose and tripped a flash of memory. Earl Grey tea: sitting, drinking across from his grandmother in her old crumbling manor. The bergamot notes lent a spiciness that he quite liked, especially with her lavender biscuits.

 

Quickly he shook his head, dislodging the old thoughts. He caught sight of the tall man tucked into a corner by the fireplace just as a waiter came to seat him.

 

“It’s alright, I’m here to meet someone,” John stated, nodding in Sherlock’s direction.

 

The waiter glanced between them, concern and doubt pulling at his mouth. “I am not sure that’s wise,” he said hesitatingly.

 

John raised an eyebrow at the young man before growling, “Well, that’s not really your business, is it?”

 

Startled, the waiter glanced up into John’s eyes and the old ex-soldier smiled. Gulping almost audibly, the younger man ducked his head and fled.

 

John blinked at the space he’d just occupied. That was interesting. When he turned around, Sherlock was staring at him, his own avid curiosity evident on his face. John smiled again, this one more polite, less hostile, and made his way over to the table.

 

“Mr Holmes,” he said, still smiling politely. “Good to see you’ve tidied up a bit.” For the other man had cleaned up, quite nicely in fact. Gone was the manic look in his eyes and the sheen of sweat. The lanky, rail-thin man was now dressed in an impeccable dark grey suit with a light blue button-down shirt underneath, open at the collar. The coat John had grabbed to yank him backwards hung on a hook beside the fireplace and was no worse for wear. Even the unruly curls had been tamed a bit and shone dimly in the light of the fire.

 

“Sherlock, please, Doctor Watson,” the deep bass rumbled as he extended his hand. “Care to join me? Angelo makes an amazing facsimile of Italian food.”

 

John huffed out a laugh, dipping his chin to his chest before considering the hand held out to him. After a moment’s hesitation, he grasped it firmly before sitting himself down in the chair opposite.

 

“John is fine. I must admit, after having you arrested, I wasn’t expecting an invitation to dinner,” John said wryly, glancing through the menu. He needed something high in iron, rare preferably, so he could savour the taste of the blood that had once coursed through its veins. It was, however, an Italian restaurant, so the selection was packed with pasta dishes, seafood, and bread. He grimaced.

 

“I am not usually of the mind to share a meal with someone as ordinary and bland as you appear to be,” Sherlock answered. John stared over the top of his menu, a bit affronted at the descriptor. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I mean, in comparison to me.”

 

John snorted, turning his attention to the tiny steak section at the bottom of the sheet. That might do nicely. “Oh, are you a proper genius, then?” he asked mildly.

 

“Obviously.”

 

The doctor glanced back up again, startled. “What, really?”

 

“Don’t look so surprised. You’ve already determined that the police were listening to me, and that I’m definitely not a witness, so what else could I be?” Sherlock looked inordinately pleased at his own words. “Consulting Detective. Only one in the world. Made up the title myself.”

 

“The police don’t consult with amateurs,” John intoned, setting down the menu and crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you to them?”

 

“They call me in on cases they can’t handle, which is all of them, and I provide them information and evidence their abysmal forensics team misses.”

 

“And do you always do so whilst high as the proverbial kite?” John smiled innocently. He watched, fascinated, as the other man’s face darkened and his shoulders hunched somewhat. So, he wasn’t entirely proud of the drugs, then.

 

He sighed, relaxing his posture and setting his elbows on the table. Steepling his fingers under his chin, his gaze bore into John’s own as he spoke. “It helps me to focus. The body is just transport; my mind is what’s important. I observe. I infer. I deduce.” He sat back as a smile ghosted over his lips. “You, for example, ex-army doctor, psychosomatic limp, invalided home after being shot in the - “ he paused, considering, “ - left shoulder. Government pension, judging by that appalling bedsit. Your brother is right to worry; PTSD most probable, though you’ve not been to see a therapist. Now, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

John blinked, slowly. Huh. “Afghanistan,” he answered. “How did you know all that?”

 

Sherlock huffed out his own breath. “Obvious. Saw your RAMC ID when you showed it to Lestrade, clearly had doctor written on it. But you are recently returned from war, injured. The way you’re holding your arm across your chest is indicative of a stiffness, soreness in the shoulder. Gunshot wound, then, bad enough that it got you sent home. You were limping through the park, but do not have your cane with you now; shows that there’s only a limp when you’re thinking about it. The mobile you’ve been fiddling with in your pocket and the laptop in your flat are not frivoloties you could afford on a government pension. The phone was given to keep in contact with him. It’s a young man’s gadget though. Top of the line smartphone; so not a parent. And it’s last year’s model; so not a gift. But you don’t get along with him, which is why you’re in London and not wherever he is.”

 

“Huh,” this time he said it out loud. “Brilliant,” he said as well, his arms loosening as he leaned them on the table and genuinely smiled for the first time in what felt like months. “Absolutely brilliant.”

 

It was Sherlock’s turn to blink at him. “That’s not what people usually say.”

 

“What do people usually say?”

 

“Piss off.”

 

That sent John into great peels of laughter and after a moment of hesitation, Sherlock joined him.

 

\---------------------------------------------------

 

They’d ordered their food - John’s the rarest steak he could get, Sherlock initially waving the waiter away, but having a large plate of linguine deposited in front of him anyway. Sherlock had introduced John to Angelo himself, who went on to tell the harrowing tale of how years ago Sherlock had gotten him off a murder charge, proved him innocent - well innocent to a point. He couldn’t have possibly committed those murders, as he had been burglaring a house elsewhere at the time, and so Angelo greeted him as an old friend, setting a candle down on the table, bringing out a bottle of red wine, and generally being the perfect host.

 

“So, tell me about the dogs,” John prompted, carefully sopping up some of the blood from the extremely rare steak with a bit of potato, and savouring it as it hit his tongue. He could get used to the enhanced taste buds.

 

“There were three of them. There must have been some sort of custody battle when the women split,” Sherlock started eagerly, lacing his fingers and resting his chin on them. “Your victim must have found out and confronted her ex, resulting in the fight. Wherever the dogs are, that’s where she is.”

 

“Suppose one of us should let the coppers know, then,” John smiled, saluting Sherlock with his glass.

 

John hadn’t realized he’d downed most of the bottle of wine himself until his glass was empty again. He smiled into it, feeling slightly light-headed and fuzzy. From experience, he knew it wouldn’t last long. His new metabolism ran quickly through anything he introduced to it, and he would have to drink more than a bottle of wine for any long-term effects to make themselves known. On the upside, this meant no more hangovers. On the downside, it took considerably more to maintain any sense of drunkenness. He sighed and looked over at his dinner companion.

 

The other man had absentmindedly picked at and eaten some of the food placed before him whilst he spoke, but was currently ignoring it in favour of again starring John full in the face. His grey and blue eyes narrowed as he took in John’s languid state, and his lips thinned as he pursed them together. John waited him out, knowing what his next question would be, but unsure how he would frame it.

 

“Why are your eyes purple?”

 

Blunt, then, to the point. John settled back in his chair, regretful that the delectable red was gone. It had almost assuaged his thirst. The dark notes of chocolate and ash had danced across his heightened taste buds and made him feel nearly sick with longing for more.

 

He shook his head. Bit not good, those thoughts. Instead, he concentrated on the question. “Chromosomal disorder,” he answered. Along with the enhanced night vision, the virus had, as a by-product, changed the colour of the irises. That’s what Dr Motters had told him caused it, anyway.

 

“Hmm,” intoned the dark-haired man, steepling his fingers under his chin again. “Does anyone else in your family have it?”

 

John thought for a moment, the wine in his bloodstream making it slightly more difficult. If he said yes, there was a possibility he would have to prove it later. If he said no… “Not that I’m aware of,” he hedged instead. There was a long moment of silence as Sherlock continued to stare at him.

 

“Anyway, I should probably get going. Shift at the hospital tomorrow. Early start,” John blustered, making to get up, digging in his pocket for a few notes to put on the table to pay for his dinner and drinks.

 

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

 

John stopped moving. “What?”

 

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

 

“Potential - ?”

 

“Flatmates, yes. You don’t want to live in that bedsit, nor do you want to leave London, and I am in the market for someone to share rent with. Address is 221B Baker Street.” He had fixed John with that implacable stare again and John’s thoughts stopped.

 

“Alright,” he heard himself say, his arms restarting to put his jacket on. “Tomorrow, then?”

 

Sherlock smiled. “Your shift ends at 2, yes? Half two, I’ll meet you in the morgue.”

 

“The morgue?” John asked, helplessly lost again.

 

The other man nodded. “Yes, of course, it’s where I do much of my research.”

 

“Alright,” John said again, brow furrowing as he stood up. “It’s a date.” He clamped his mouth shut. What had he just said? He got a quick glance at Sherlock’s quirked eyebrow before he stammered a good night and marched himself stiffly out the door.

  
Definitely too much wine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello doves! Thank-you for all your kind notes and kudos, I really appreciate it. I am so grateful to all y'all. 
> 
> There was one note that caught my eye - about John meeting Mycroft - and I couldn't resist writing it, sooner than anticipated. I hope it is up to snuff. The British Government is probably the hardest to write convincingly. 
> 
> Take care and thanks again! :)

Once outside, John went over the strange dinner in his mind. His memory, which had always been excellent, sharpened the details of the evening until he found himself over-analysing every little nuance. He’d panicked, there, at the end. The combination of blood and wine had spread through his system, making him feel relaxed and lowering the tight barriers he’d erected around his thoughts. Making a mental note to review those circumstances and jot it all down in his notebook, he suddenly realised he’d walked nearly all the way home, and now found himself back on the outskirts of the park he spent his mornings in. He paused, taking in the crisp evening air, feeling suddenly content and at ease for the first time since waking up in that army hospital.

 

John grinned suddenly. Flatmates, hmm? No more retreating to the dim, depressing confines of his bed sit. No more sharing a loo with men he hardly knew. If he was lucky, it might be a bit like being back in the army, rubbing shoulders with a colleague, each working for the other’s benefit.

 

He picked up his pace again, heading through the center of the park. The exercise and air, as well as his metabolism, had cleared the rest of the wine from his system. He continued to muse on his good fortune - and excellent steak - so it wasn’t until he was passing through the middle part of the park that he finally noticed it was deserted. Not slowing his pace, his senses immediately kicked into high gear. Ears and eyes pinpointed the slight shuffling movements of five people spread out in a circle around him. They were converging slowly, taking their time in closing whatever trap they had planned.

 

Just as John was about to break into a run, a figure peeled itself away from the shadows ahead of him, deliberately walking forward to stand in his path. He stopped abruptly, pulling the air into his nose unconsciously to scent this new intruder. Crisp linens, ink, and bergamot teased across his senses. The figure in front of him casually crossed one ankle over the other, leaning on an umbrella for support.

 

The other four people were keeping quiet now, acting more like sentries than hostiles. John could make out each one in turn, his eyesight easily finding their silhouettes despite the shadows that clung to them. John narrowed his eyes, mind racing as he tried to ascertain the best way to get himself out of the park. The familiar rush of the fight or flight response suffused his limbs, as his military training suggested exit strategies in his mind, causing his body to actually relax. His eyesight was better, his reflexes faster, and his body stronger than these strangers could possibly imagine. He grinned again, one side of his mouth quirking up as he stood tall and planted his feet firmly on the path, his arms held loosely at his sides.

 

What could have been a long, arduous staring contest was interrupted by the other figure sighing theatrically and spinning the umbrella on its tip before speaking. The voice was cultured, obviously upper-class, and strangely familiar. “Doctor Watson,” it - he - said. “Let us dispense with the dramatics as they make me weary.” Here he paused and John could make out his eyes darting around the park, raking up John’s relaxed figure, and settling on his face. “What are your intentions when it comes to Sherlock Holmes?”

 

John blinked, slowly. What? “My intentions - ?” he started.

 

“Yes. You facilitated his arrest a week ago and now you are returning from dinner with him.” The other man uncrossed his ankles, standing to his full height. He hung the umbrella carefully over his wrist and produced a small notebook from his pocket. “And now he’s invited you to move into his flat.”

 

“I don’t see what business that is of yours,” John growled defiantly. Who was this tall idiot standing in his way? He could see him better now that he was focusing on him. Dark suit, long coat, and gloved hands, all of fabric that smelled like money, even from as far away as John was standing. Auburn hair set against pale skin and an angular nose sat atop a thin-lipped mouth that was turned down at the corners. John’s hands flexed at the thought of that elegant, unblemished throat clenched beneath his fingers, pulse racing as those terrified eyes held his.

 

It was a conscious effort now to keep the anger at bay as it surged against its cage.

 

The man flipped through a few pages in his notebook before settling on one in particular. Completely unaware of John’s internal struggle, he frowned as he read the page. “It’s written here that you were injured in a remote part of Afghanistan and flown out to a military hospital just outside London. You were treated for a, and I quote, ‘unknown pathogen’, by a Dr Motters and released after several weeks with a regime for an experimental drug.” He glanced up at John, still frowning. “How can you be treated for an unknown pathogen and deemed fit to step outside of a hospital?” He waited, obviously expecting an answer, but John held his tongue. He wasn’t about to give this git the time of day let alone information about his private life.

 

When the silence seemed to stretched out too long, John broke it with a shrug of his shoulders, and grating out, “Again, not that it’s any business of yours.”

 

“Where Sherlock is concerned, it is my business.”

 

“Who is Sherlock to you?” John asked before he could stop himself. This was getting curiouser and curiouser. And suddenly he realized that the bergamot notes should have tipped him off. “You’re his brother,” he breathed, the thought bypassing his brain and out onto his lips so quickly it tasted like lightening.

 

There was a flicker in the other man’s eyes, too fast for anyone else to have seen it, but to John it was easily discernible. Surprise, with a touch of fear. John’s grin turned feral as his internal struggle ramped up a notch at this display. He wasn’t in any danger of hurting this man, not yet, but the thirst responded to fear and he clenched his left hand, willing it back down again. The rest of his stance was still poised, but relaxed. He felt fully in control, despite the adrenaline that spiked through his system.

 

The realization that he could kill the other man right here, right now, before his sentries had time to react, filled him with a sick sense of dread.

 

“You can see, then, why I would be concerned for his well-being. Especially given the nature of this ‘unknown pathogen’,” he said, projecting calm. He made a show of tucking the notebook back into his pocket and gripping the umbrella with both hands.

 

John took a deep breath. If this man - Sherlock’s brother - knew about Dr Motters, then he had a reason to be cautious. Sure, the daily injections helped relieve the pain and the thirst, but it was taking a great deal of concentration, right now, to remain where he was, feet planted and steady.

 

“I am no danger to your brother,” he said softly, closing his eyes and sighing. His shoulders slumped a bit and he had to force himself to look back up and meet the other’s gaze.

 

The taller man narrowed his eyes. “I am not sure you are qualified to make that assurance, Doctor Watson.” He glanced down at his hands before back up at John. “However I am only here to warn you that should anything happen to my brother, you are the first person I will come looking to for answers.” This last was said in a light voice, almost as if he was discussing the weather, but it held an edge of steel that John did not miss. He nodded, once, quickly, to show his understanding. “Good. Now, please have a lovely evening. I will be in touch again, I’m sure.” And he sauntered off, out of the park, followed by his four shadows.

 

John watched him go, taking in the measured pace, the unhurried way in which Sherlock’s brother departed. He held still until the other was out of sight, at which point he let out another deep sigh and smiling grimly. “What on earth are you getting yourself into, John Watson?” he whispered to himself. The remainder of his journey home was uneventful by comparison. He made it all the way up to his bed sit before his phone chimed.

 

I will be watching, stated a blocked number.

 

“No shit,” mumbled John as he momentarily contemplated tossing the offending device through the open window before reminding himself that he couldn’t exactly afford a new one. He compromised by viciously attaching the power cable and dropping it onto the table beside his bed.

 

He felt like he was in some sort of dream. Someone else’s dream, to be sure, where he wasn’t entirely in control of what was happening. The surrealness of the past few hours was making him feel uneasy, and he impulsively picked up the phone again, scrawling through the short list of contacts. His thumb hovered over Sherlock’s number for a split second before he selected it, tapping out a quick message.

 

Thanks again for the invite to dinner. Very nice steak they do there. He paused again, thinking. Met your brother. He smiled ruefully. Seems a bit overprotective. He hit Send, placed the phone back on the table, and stood to remove his shoes and coat.

 

He’d just put the kettle on when his phone chimed again.

 

If it was steak you were looking for, I would have suggested another venue, the message said, simply. He frowned down at it. That wasn’t exactly the answer he’d been expecting. He was just about to replace the phone when it chimed again. What did he say?

 

John sat with the phone in his hand for several moments, thinking, before it suddenly rang.

 

“Hello?”

 

“What did he say?” came Sherlock’s resonant voice. “You obviously don’t want to text it to me, so tell me instead.”

 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” John bristled, intentionally repeating his statement from the earlier encounter. He practically heard Sherlock roll his eyes.

 

“Oh, he threatened you. Obvious. But what else?”

 

The doctor hesitated. “He seems concerned for your well being,” he hedged finally.

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Only so much as it pertains to his well being.” There was a long pause before, “Wait. How did you know he was my brother? He never would have told you that.”

 

“I really need to be getting to sleep now. Early day at the hospital,” John said quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Half two.”

 

“Hold on! I need - “ John hung up on him. Pressing the hard edge of the phone in the crease of his furrowed brow, he tried in vain to rationalize what he’d just done. There was that sense of panic again. He should never have texted him. And definitely not told him about meeting his brother. What had he been thinking?

 

The phone chimed again and he had the messaging screen open before he thought better of it.

 

Half two. See you then.

 

He sighed, relieved. The phone chimed.

 

I will find out.

 

The prickling sense of dread washed over him, leaving a dull queasiness in its wake. He was suddenly sure that the self-proclaimed consulting detective really would find out. What would John do then? And what would Sherlock do with that information?

  
He didn’t sleep that night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all for your kind words! I am overwhelmed by your sentiment :)  
> I am slowly progressing with this monstrosity. It has taken on a life of its own. However, I am confident that it will have an ending! So, I hope you enjoy the ride.

As usual, John woke at six, took his daily injection, and showered quickly. He methodically put on his clothes, coat and shoes, and headed to the tube station. He trudged through the crowds, trying to blend in with the streams of humanity that flowed around him. It felt like more of a farce today than usual. As he stood in the packed tube, his hand ridgid above his head gripping the bar, he noticed the unconscious space people were making around him. It wasn’t like they were actively avoiding him, just that despite the crush of people on all sides, no one touched him. Even when he shifted to let a few people by to rush out the opening doors, they avoided brushing against him.

 

His mouth set in a hard line. Something else to write in his notebook.

 

John left the train and headed back up to the surface, still a block from the hospital. The sky was dark and the street lights touched everything with their yellow sodium haze. He liked this time of day best. The sun had not yet risen, and everything seemed softer at the edges. Despite that, his eyes picked out every detail effortlessly. Newspaper headlines jumped out at him from the seller on the corner. The dark blue ribbon in the hair of the woman coming towards him stood starkly against her blonde curls. White trainers with bright green laces donned the feet of the young man across the street talking on his phone.

 

He walked along the pavement, conscious of how people avoided looking at him, stepped aside if he trod too close, and of the bubble of emptiness that surrounded him. Now that he’d become aware of it, it seemed to him like a giant sign was hung around his neck: BEWARE. It looked to be an unconscious effort on their part, but he still couldn’t suppress the smug sense of satisfaction that suffused his chest. They feared him. And well they should. He was a predator in this urban landscape and they would do well to remember that.

 

Shaking these absurd thoughts from his head, he walked more quickly towards his destination. Turning down a well-lit alleyway, he swiped his keycard and opened the entrance marked “Private”, squinting in at the blazingly bright fluorescent lights that hung on chains from the ceiling above him. Their incessant hum was loud after the dull murmuring of the quiet streets outside.

 

“Watson!” came a voice from the end of the hall. “You alright?” The short, round man smiled cheerfully as John trudged towards him.

 

“Ya, Mike, you?” he answered, pasting a grin on one side of his mouth.

 

Mike Stamford shrugged before taking a swig of his coffee, and grinned from behind his glasses and thinning dark hair. “Shouldn’t complain,” he answered wrily. “Young fresh recruits. So naive and unbroken.” He huffed a laugh. “God I hate them.”

 

John patted him on the back as they walked together down the hall towards the locker rooms. “Shouldn’t have agreed to teach, then. That’s really your first mistake.”

 

“Oh? What’s my second?” Mike asked, pushing open the door  on their right.

 

“Being too daft to do anything else.”

 

Mike stared at him for a moment before laughing aloud, grinning widely. “I have missed you, John. I’m glad you’re back. Though,” he frowned. “Not under the most auspicious circumstances.”

 

They put their things away in silence, stuffing coats and outside shoes into the lockers before donning pristine white lab coats and comfortable trainers. John pulled out his dog tags, setting them on the top shelf of his locker. He didn’t like taking them off - they’d become such a part of him that he felt uncomfortable without them, like a part of him was missing - but during his first day of work a flailing child had nearly ripped them from around his neck and he knew he wouldn’t be able to wear them on the hospital grounds.

 

Mike glanced over at him, pointing to the tags. “Those should be in your shoes.”

 

A sudden vision of doing just that sliced through his mind. It had been just before his last patrol. He’d carefully wrapped the chain around his ankle, and placed the tags under his heel as he’d slipped on the heavy combat boots. Every soldier on duty out in the desert heat did it: the boots were the sturdiest part of the uniform, and therefore the most likely to survive an explosion.

 

Which meant that putting your tags around your ankle and in your boots increased the chance of your body being identified should the worst happen. It was both comforting and terrifying to be reminded of that little ritual.

 

His colleague’s face was open and earnest when he glanced over at him, and John remembered that Mike came from a military family. He knew all about the little things soldiers did out in the field. Instead of snapping at him, John simply gave him a lopsided smile as he removed his tags from the locker, and wrapping the chain around his ankle, placing the tags under his heel. He instantly felt better, though he could feel as the roiling pain in his chest grew sulky as it retreated further into its cage. How odd. Something else to write in the book.

 

He sighed, closing the door to his locker and spinning the dial. “Thanks, Mike. Still a bit out of sorts when it comes to this civilian work.”

 

Mike lead the way out of the room as they headed to the elevator at the far end of the hall. “Well, don’t get used to it. Can’t be around to baby you through all this transition bollocks,” he said cheerfully. He thumbed the button, and the doors immediately swept open, revealing a very tall, very familiar man.

 

John’s mouth hung open for a moment as Mike groaned, “Sherlock. What are you doing here so early? Molly’s not given you a key, has she?”

 

Sherlock sniffed in disdain before sweeping between the two men, headed down another hallway towards the back of the building. “Of course not, Mike!” He paused at the doors leading into the morgue, looked back and smiled. “I picked the lock.” Before either man could respond, he’d pushed the doors open and slipped from sight.

 

The two men stared down the now vacant hall as the doors to the empty elevator slid shut. John jabbed the button again, grateful for a distraction, and the doors wrenched open for a second time. As the two stepped inside, John turned a concerned look to Mike, who shrugged dispassionately and drank again from his coffee cup.

 

“That’s Sherlock, by the way. Not exactly allowed in here, but no one can really stop him,” Mike said by way of explanation.

 

“I’ve met him before. Is he always like that?” John questioned, swiping his card and pressing the indicator for the first floor.

 

“What do you mean you’ve met him before? No, wait, let me guess. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time and he told you all about yourself without even a by your leave.”

 

“Something like that.” John paused for a moment as the elevator chimed and the doors opened. “Seeing about a flat share with him this afternoon,” he added casually, gauging Mike’s reaction as they headed out into the bustle of the hospital.

 

“Well, that’s not a surprise,” Mike intoned, nodding at the nurses at the desk as one handed him a stack of charts. “You are a bit of a thrill-seeker. And Sherlock is anything but boring to be around. Just watch yourself; he has an older brother who’s a bit overprotective.” John gaped at him in disbelief for a moment and Mike turned to laugh at his expression. “I’ve known you how many years, John? And you come back from the war and want to work in A&E instead of a nice, quiet clinic?” He snorted. “I’m not the fat idiot you sometimes take me for.”

 

The older man grinned in response. “Well, not an idiot anyway.”

 

“Hey! The wife likes it,” Mike responded, waggling his eyebrows, generating an actual laugh from John. “Get on with yourself. I’ll see you for lunch.” Tucking the charts under his arm, Mike turned to regard the small group of awkward young adults who had gathered silently behind him. “That is Captain John Watson,” he told them, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at John, who grinned readily. “If any of you lot correctly diagnose something today, I’ll let you down to A&E to observe him at work. He’s seen two tours in Afghanistan, more death than you ever will, and is decidedly less pleasant than I am.” John let his grin turn a bit malicious and watched as two of the interns blanched. The coiled pain in his chest purred at the thought of getting one of them underneath him, smelling their fear as he watched the life drain from their body. It took an effort of will to push the thought away and listen to the rest of Mike’s morning speech. “However, he is very, very good at what he does and despite his prickly personality, has also saved more lives than you ever will. Now,” he continued, flashing a smile and a wink at John behind him. “Let’s see if you remember anything from last week.”

 

John turned and headed in the opposite direction, nodding and murmuring greetings to the other doctors and nurses he passed. As he approached the doors that lead into A&E, the olfactory wave of blood and sweat washed over him, and he grinned fiercely.

 

Into battle.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Filling out paperwork was the most tedious part of his job, but John was nothing if not meticulous in the details. The last three patients he’d seen had been involved in a brawl at a local pub, and there would be charges pending. His description of injuries was needed by the police, especially since one of the involved had been hit so hard in the back of the head as to cause temporary blindness.

 

John glanced up at the clock that hung above the door in his tiny office. He shared it with five other doctors who he barely ever saw, as each one was on a slightly different rotation. The clock told him he had twenty minutes before he needed to leave to meet his new potential flatmate. Just enough to head back down to the locker room, have a much-needed shower, and get to the morgue.

 

He finished signing the last of the documents, tucking the bundle under his arm as he left the office, and locked the door behind him. Pausing at the nurses’ station, he smiled at Evee, the over-worked senior nurse, handing her the files carefully. She smiled back at him, her olive skin crinkling at the corners of her deep brown eyes.

 

“Just the last of the write up on those blokes got themselves in a bit of trouble at the pub,” John said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trying not to fidget.

 

“Thank-you, Doctor Watson,” she replied, glancing at the top of the pile. “I’ll make sure these get into the police report as well.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked, smile now turning a bit softer, flirtatious.

 

John inhaled, tasting the scent of rain and orchids that always swirled around the nurse. He’d been working with her nearly every day now and she was brilliant. Always ready to help, always there with a fresh set of eyes and hands. Evee’s long dark hair was always piled on top of her head, up out of the way of little grasping fingers and flailing limbs alike. He wondered what it would be like to feel it slide through his fingers.

 

Suddenly the muffled pain in his chest surged forward, taking the scent of rain and orchids and intertwining it with the ever-present stench of stale blood that permeated the very walls of the A&E. It shook the bars he had carefully erected around it with such force that John gasped, bending double as his lungs refused to draw air back in. Images of him kissing Evee assailed his mind. He saw himself brutally pinning her to the wall and ravaging her mouth before licking at the pulse point under her jaw, scratching his teeth against it hard enough to taste what he could smell just beneath the surface.

 

He bit down sharply on the side of his tongue, the pain and the fresh metallic taste of blood providing a distraction from the thoughts that raged in his mind. Distantly he could hear Evee calling his name.

 

“John? John! Are you alright?” she called anxiously, her careful hands held steady on his shoulders as he built enough resistance within himself to clear the haze from his thoughts and force the pain back down.

 

“Yeah, yeah I’m alright,” he gasped, standing up slowly and wincing. “Just pinched the nerve in my leg a bit.” He smiled sheepishly. “Sometimes I forget I’m an old man.”

 

Evee returned his smile uncertainty. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Her brow furrowed as he got his breathing back under control. “Are you sure - “

 

“Yes. I’m fine,” he snapped, suddenly irritated with the whole situation. “Make sure those reports get to the officer in charge. I’ll - I’ve got to get going.” Abruptly he turned and strode quickly down the hall and out to the main reception area, not stopping till he was safely back in the elevator and headed down to the ground floor.

 

His brain was on fire. The puncture marks caused by biting down on his tongue had healed nearly as quickly as he’d made them, and had only provided a momentary distraction from the pain. It had been enough, though, to get away, flee from the images racing across his mind. He wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, that the pain was this close to the surface, able to take control of his thoughts and fill them with such heady, torturous, bleeding -

 

He again halted his thoughts just as the elevator doors opened, and instead concentrated his thoughts on the muffled blankness that permeated his brain, as it put out the fire that burned there. He trudged down the hall and entered the locker room, painstakingly putting away his work clothes before heading to the showers. He turned the water temperature up to the hottest he could bare before stripping his clothes and moving to stand under the punishing spray. He closed his eyes and let the  insistent force of the water from the shower head work the tension out of his limbs,as he relaxed a bit under the spray, feeling his control return.

 

After an interminable amount of time, John became suddenly aware that someone else had entered the room. Keeping his body relaxed and eyes closed, he pulled air in through his nose, grinning as the hints of Earl Grey and bergamot permeated his senses.

 

“It’s terribly rude to barge in on someone in the showers, you know.” John directed his voice towards the intruder, without removing his head from the comforting stream of water. “I’m at a disadvantage here, you know.”

 

There was a pause before Sherlock’s voice came from across the room, somewhere directly behind him. “You were late. I came to see what was keeping you.”

 

“Really?” John kept his voice light, but he could smell the change in the other’s scent. The bergamot was now laced with something else. Something green. Something crisp, almost acidic. Apples? He chuckled softly. “I think, perhaps, you should let me dry off and put some clothes on so we can at least be on equal footing.”

 

Behind him, Sherlock snorted in amusement. “For us to be on equal footing you’d need some sort of step up. A soapbox, perhaps?”

 

The - not really all that - shorter man was silent with surprise. He risked glancing over his shoulder at the other man, who was steadfastly gazing at the wall to his left, away from where John still stood under the sluicing spray from the shower head. His lips were quirked up at the corners, clearly waiting for John’s reaction.

 

John obliged by huffing out his own laugh, which quickly turned into a full-bellied sound that echoed through the tiled room. “Get out, Sherlock,” he finally managed before stepping fully under the spray, rinsing away the last of the tension and hospital smell.

  
It wasn’t until he was dressed and Sherlock was hailing a cab for them that it occurred to John that the pain in his shoulder had retreated to a dull ache. Strangely, it seemed content to wait.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hello there! I have picked up an editor (the ever-patient [221books](http://221books.tumblr.com)) so I will be re-uploading the earlier chapters again. Please enjoy the next chapter in this series. I am making a commitment to actually update this thing more regularly. We'll see how that goes. Thanks again for all your kind notes.

As he stood inside the doorway of the cluttered flat, John smiled ruefully at the rather pleasant landlady. Sherlock was flitting about the room, suddenly chagrined by the boxes stacked haphazardly on the floor by the window, and the mail littering the desk, flowing down across the floor in a wave. It was a nice enough flat, two bedrooms and a spacious kitchen, complete with furniture that was well-worn but comfortable . He walked over to a heavy wooden table that dominated the space it occupied on the far side of the room. Running his hand over the surface and drawing breath through his nose, he heard the cacophony behind him as the landlady - Mrs Hudson - chattered on, and Sherlock made moves to tidy up the straying letters. The tingle of household chemicals passed over his senses, underlaid with the rich, ancient scent of cedar. He could taste the mold that was undoubtedly what those black spots on the wall near the stairs had been, though it wasn’t overpowering. 

Another smell wound its way into his nostrils, dusty and chalky with a hint of blood. He closed his eyes unconsciously for a moment, tracking it through the air to its source, his brow furrowing as he tried to determine its identity. John’s eyes flashed open in sudden recognition, and he stared fixedly at a human skull that rested on the mantelpiece. A real one, apparently. Not simply a prop he’d seen in theatre productions as a school boy. 

He glanced back at Sherlock, who was staring at him intently, and then back over at Mrs. Hudson. 

“I’m sure you boys’ll love it here,” the elderly lady beamed at them both, hands clutched together in front of her and eyes bright. John felt surprisingly relaxed by her scent - cough drops and molasses - and smiled back at her warmly. 

“Yes, it’s quite good for my purposes, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock intoned, his eyes never leaving the older man. “John?”

John ducked his head, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “This, uh, this could be nice,” he tried, shoulder stiff as he swept his arm around the room. “I want to take a look at the room upstairs, then, if it’s all the same to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze flicked up and down John’s form before coming to rest on his face. “Yes of course.” He answered, and in an instant, was all motion again, his coattails flapping behind him as he dug through boxes and motioned absently to the door. “There’s another toilet up there as well.”

“It’s time for my medication. Just call if you need me!” Mrs. Hudson told them, hands flitting through the air like frightened birds.

Nodding to himself, John opened the door to the hallway, allowing Mrs. Hudson to pass in front of him before making his way up the final flight of stairs. He paused at the top, glancing into the tiny bathroom, eyes darting around as he took in every detail, before moving on to the bedroom. It was small, the garret roof pitched downwards on one side, but in spite of this the double bed and wardrobe fit neatly into the space, making it feel homey and snug. It wasn’t until he’d made his way to the window overlooking the street below that the warm, heady scent of fresh hay and sun-ripened peaches drifted into his nostrils. He breathed in deeply, the calming notes causing his eyes to become heavy lidded as his chin to dropped to his chest. He stood there for several minutes, allowing himself to become fully immersed in the sensation, mouth partly open, feeling content and more at ease then he had in a very long time. The fragrance seemed to permeate even the walls of the room, and John was reminded of his childhood home, the last place he had felt truly safe. 

The feeling ebbed slowly as another scent seeped into the edges of his conscience. It took him another minute to place it, but once the bergamot was finally named in his mind, John whipped around to see the figure standing motionless behind him. He took in a deep breath, as the scent of the other man caused nearly every other thought to vacate his mind as everything came back into sharper focus. How long had Sherlock been standing there?

The two stared at each other, eyes wide, waiting for someone to break the silence. Eventually John spoke. “It’s good,” his voice cracked and he hurriedly cleared his throat again. “Yes, good. I’ll get my things and, um, be back here tomorrow I suppose.” He looked back up to see Sherlock eyeing him warily and suddenly felt alarmed. “Unless, of course, you don’t want - “

“No!” Sherlock blurted suddenly, before continuing in a much quieter tone, “No. You should bring your things tonight. Government tenements do not suit you and I would rather you were here sooner.” When John raised a quizzical eyebrow at this, Sherlock hastened to add, “You have another early morning at the hospital tomorrow. This flat is closer. And the bed is better. Yes.” 

“Right,” John said, blinking up at him. “Well, then, I’ll go pack my things and be back before tea, yeah?” 

Sherlock remained staring at him with a level of scrutiny was almost unnerving. Not one to be intimidated by much of anything anymore, John relaxed back into a military posture, his hands held loosely behind him, and his feet shoulder-width apart. He knew he could outlast the taller man, as his patience was far superior, and a smile played on his lips as he watched Sherlock’s grey-blue eyes flit across his features, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. John had read - and been subjected to - enough of the other’s deductive skills that he was confident in his ability to keep himself hidden from those eyes, which now came back up to meet his own. His smile widened as Sherlock’s frown deepened. 

“Are you going to let me pass?” John asked, amusement colouring his tone. 

Sherlock huffed out a breath before spinning on the spot and fleeing the room. John’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. That was just about the last reaction he’d expected. Finding himself alone again, he once more breathed in the calming notes of hay and peaches - faded now and displaced by bergamot - before heading back down the stairs and out the front door. 

“Doctor Watson!” came Mrs Hudson’s voice, following him out onto the pavement. “Doctor, will you be staying, then?” she asked as he turned to smile at her. 

“If you allow it,” he replied cheekily, guaranteeing the brilliant smile and light swat on the arm she gave him.

“Of course! Good man like you, it’ll be good for Sherlock to have someone stable in his life,” she said, her smile turning wistful as she glanced back up the stairs through the open door. Her eyes, however, were hard when they came back to rest on him. “You will be good to him?”

John was taken aback by the fierce protectiveness that set her mouth and caused her hands to clench at her sides, so sudden and unexpected, as if a switch had been flicked inside her. He could see that despite her diminutive stature, she was prepared to fight to protect what she deemed hers. The coiled pain and anger purred behind the bars of its cage, delighted by the display of dominance it was witnessing, and John had to clamp his mouth shut to keep at bay the snarl that rose instinctively to respond to it.

Mrs. Hudson may be a quiet pensioner at present, but there was no doubt in John’s mind that she had once been someone to truly contend with. 

He settled for a feigned look of shock, clutching his hand to his chest and rocking back on his heels in mock horror. “I can do no less,” he swore to her solemnly. 

Her gaze softened as she reached out and brushed her fingers along his cheek. “Good. Now go get your things and come home.”

The smile that lit his face was absolutely genuine. Home. A thousand possibilities in one simple syllable. “Of course, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll be back in a tic.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took a little longer than a tic for John to make his way across London to collect his things, before heading back to his new home, his heavy foot locker in tow. He spent a considerably longer time arguing with the housing manager over how much extra rent he was going to have to pay, as compared to the time spent actually packing his few belongings. Trying to tamp down his anger at being charged an extra month had been nearly impossible. The white hot rage that came over him had caused the two men to nearly come to blows. John eventually convinced the manager to take half of what he wanted, though convincing had involved pinning the taller man to the wall and shouting in his face.

Finding himself again on the steps of 221 Baker Street, John still felt angry, though it was tempered with guilt. All he could think about was how powerful he’d felt, nearly lifting the housing manager onto his toes as he growled out his final offer. The look of shock and fear on the man’s face was intoxicating. And when he’d let him go, slapping the money into his trembling hand, the man had scurried away back down the stairs, causing the pain in John’s chest to flare briefly. He’d made two steps after the manager before realizing what he’d been about to do. It had felt almost natural to stalk after his prey as it fled from him. 

He’d tried to push the thoughts from his mind, having the cab stop at a Chinese take-away on the way back in an attempt at distracting himself. Not knowing what his new flatmate would like, he picked out a few generic dishes and paid. Upon arrival, John handed over the last of his cash as the cabbie had helped him deposit his luggage on the ground outside of his new home.

Sighing, he hefted the foot locker by one handle, dragging it up the two steps to the front door. He tentatively opened the door, and upon entering the flat,his ears immediately picked up the sound of a violin. It wasn’t anything he recognized, but the melody was intricate and soothing, causing him to smile as he shut the door behind him. He set down the take-away and lifted the awkward luggage, carrying it slowly up the stairs. He let the melody drift over his senses, and by the time he’d reached the top of the third flight he felt calm again. The pain in its cage was content, nearly dormant as the sensuous music swirled around him. He set the locker down just outside his room and leaned over the railing to listen as the sonata came to a close, the last note reverberating through the air, seeming to go on and on until it faded from the reach of his hearing. 

He was still smiling. And the beast within was still silent. Something to write in his notebook. 

Speaking of which, John turned and unlocked the trunk, flipping the lid open and gazing at the contents ruefully. At the top was his duffel bag, which held the few changes of clothes he owned. Under that was his dress uniform, tightly packed in tissue; his boots; his shaving kit - an old wooden box given to him by his mother when he’d first been stationed abroad - a few books; and at the very bottom, under a smaller box of memorabilia and letters, was a hard, turquoise plastic container that housed vials of the drug prescribed by Dr. Motters. He lifted it out, placing it carefully on the very top of the wardrobe, out of plain sight but where he could easy access it. He then piled his care-worn books in front of it. He knew it wasn’t a terribly good hiding place, but it wasn’t as if Sherlock was going to rummage through his room. 

He unpacked the rest of his things quickly and efficiently, not having much beyond the bare essentials. He dragged the foot locker further into the room, placing at it the end of the bed and setting his boots on top. Tucking the shaving kit under one arm, he grabbed the plastic bag containing the rest of his toiletries and headed into the small bathroom. Unlike his bedroom, this room was indeed cramped and small. A shower stall took up most of the space, with a pedestal sink on the opposite wall and between the two sat the toilet. A medicine cabinet with a mirror was mounted to the wall above the sink, and once opened, revealed several old glass shelves. Sufficient for his purposes, he supposed.

Just as he finished putting his meager possessions inside the cabinet, he heard a commotion downstairs. Curious, he went out to the hallway, leaning again over the railing to listen.

“It’s not even a three, let alone the eight you claimed it to be!” came Sherlock’s strident voice.

There was a tired huff from the second person in the room. “Ya, well, I thought, it being a literal cage with a literal brain in it, you’d be interested.” 

John tilted his head to the side, trying to place the voice. He was sure he’d heard it before.

“Oh please,” Sherlock scoffed. “It was obviously taken from the anatomy lab at King’s College. A simple case of theft. There’s no reason for me to waste my time on it.” There was the distinct creak of furniture as his his muffled voice continued, “Go away, Lestrade, until you have something actually interesting.” 

Lestrade? The name jarred loose the memory of that not-too-long-ago night at the park when he first met Sherlock, as the man had fled from two police officers and John had intervened. Satisfied with his placement of the voice, John headed down the stairs, intent on retrieving the take-away before it cooled into a congealed, unappetizing mess. As he walked into the kitchen, he smiled brightly at the slightly taller, tired-looking Detective Inspector. He was much better dressed this time, a heavy canvas overcoat that hung open off his shoulders to reveal a dark grey suit,white button down shirt and navy blue tie. When he looked over to John, returning his smile tightly, the former soldier was caught by the rich earth colour of the policeman’s eyes. 

The pain in his chest unwound a bit, pushing against the bars of its cage as it recognized another hunter, albeit of an entirely different medium. Interesting. “Hello,” he greeted pleasantly, setting down the take-away bag on the kitchen table. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“Yes, John,” came Sherlock’s immediate response. His voice was still muffled, and now John saw why. Sherlock was on his side on the couch on the far side of the room, his back the only thing visible. His face was pushed into the cushions and long limbs were pulled tight into his body. “Three sugars.”

John raised an eyebrow at the prone figure before turning back to Lestrade. “I, uh, meant you.”

For his part, Lestrade looked deeply confused. “Who are you, then?” His eyes widened comically with realisation. “You’re that bloke from the park. The doctor.” He glanced quickly between the two men. “What, are you his in-house doctor now as well?” 

John’s smile tightened as he dipped his head. “No. Just his flatmate.” The Detective tried to catch his eye again, frown deepening, but John tilted his head, indicating the kitchen. “Anything?”

Lestrade sighed, rolling his eyes. “Ya, no. If what his nibs says is true, I have to go arrest a student for petty theft.” His gaze was calculating as it swept over John, and only then did he notice the older man’s scent had changed subtly. Instead of just the dark cocoa and burnt ashes that John was beginning to recognise, there was now a newly present cut grass scent that intertwined and made all of John’s attention focus on him. 

Suddenly John could hear the other’s heartbeat, could see it quicken at the point beneath his chin. The steady rush of it filled his ears, pushing out all other sounds. He wanted so very badly to challenge this man - this intruder in his home. An electric tingle suffused his skin and every muscle seemed to tense as he readied himself to spring forward.

“John! TEA!” Sherlock yelled in demand from his place on the couch. He’d uncurled enough to twist his head to look back over his shoulder. “Lestrade, text me when you have an actual case.”

The moment broken, John smiled tightly at the startled officer, and turned to march himself into the kitchen, mechanically going through the motions of making tea, removing the take-away containers from their communal bag, and carefully doling some out onto a plate for himself. The tea steeped and he began to eat, accompanied by the soundtrack of the Detective Inspector’s sighing, his canvas coat shifting over his shoulders, and the wood floor creaking under his feet as he moved further into the room.

“You know, Sherlock, if you were a bit more polite, people would be more inclined to help you,” Lestrade spoke so softly that John had to strain a bit to hear him. “Just…” the other man trailed off before sighing again. His voice was harder as he finished, “Just stay off the drugs. I’ll call when I have a proper murder.” 

“See that you do,” Sherlock replied, and although his tone was harsh, John could hear the trembling below it. He listened intently as the silence between the two men stretched out, like a dark thread that hung taught in the air. Finally and without another word, Lestrade turned away and headed out of the flat, down the stairs and out the front door.

John brought the two mugs into the living room, putting one on the coffee table behind Sherlock before settling himself into a wine-coloured chair on the far side of the room. He sat staring out the far window, watching as the light of the setting sun faded, and contemplated this turn of events. He mulled over the idea that the violin music had softened the pain somewhat, causing it to retreat and rest behind its bars. He thought of the contentment it had filled him with as he listened to it, and how it had caused him to nearly forget about his run-in with the building manager. 

He found his territorial reaction to Lestrade startling, and a cold chill went up his spine as he thought about how close he’d come to actively provoking the other man. Only Sherlock’s insistence of “John! TEA!” had stopped him. He wondered absently what that said about him, and more urgently about how this impossible man was able to cut through the haze and anger that seemed to dog his every interaction.

Glancing over at the prone figure, John watched the steady rise and fall of his elbow where it was tucked against his side. He could tell, from the sound of his breath and heartbeat, that the lanky git was sound asleep, having not even touched his tea. John grinned to himself, and sipped his own lukewarm cup. He set it down on the delicate tea table beside him and thought for a moment. Might as well go for his evening constitutional, he decided, quietly and carefully extracting himself from the chair. It seemed like a good chance to get to know the neighbourhood, maybe find another park to walk through. Or, more likely, a pub to sit in.

He felt his pockets automatically for his phone, wallet, and keys, and it suddenly came to him that he hadn’t yet been given a set of keys for the flat. He looked over at his sleeping flatmate, then back up to where his dramatic coat hung on the back of the door. Shrugging, he walked over and rifled through the pockets, coming up with three mobiles - all from different manufacturers - a slim black wallet, and a warrant card with “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade” emblazoned across the front of it. John stifled a laugh. Well, at least he had a first name now. Thoughtfully he contemplated the card for another moment before tucking it into his own coat pocket. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was doing it to give it back to the DI, or merely keep it away from Sherlock. 

Finally, he found a small ring of keys. He crept out the door and down the stairs, unconsciously missing the two creaking ones his extended senses had noticed on the way up. Just to be sure, he checked the keys in the front door, ensuring that at least one of them would let him back in. The dark was coming up quickly now and the wind bit through his jacket and the woolen jumper underneath, only to be stopped by his over-warm skin. He breathed in deeply the evening air of London and turned right, following the scent of rain.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! Here is the next chapter in this ridiculous universe. Thank-you all for your kind words and kudos.  
> My fantastic editor, [221books](http://221books.tumblr.com) is bloody amazing as always.

John arrived home late the next afternoon, the lights from the windows of their first-floor flat already burning softly against the quickly dimming world outside, like lighthouse beacons leading him to safety. He’d slept fitfully the past night, as one was want to do on their first night in a new abode. The only part of his routine that still held a sense of familiarity had taken place when he had gotten up at six to take his injection. Sherlock had been right: the flat was much closer to the tube line, and to the hospital, and as a result he’d been a bit early, able to find Evee and apologise for his strange behaviour the day before. She’d accepted with good grace and a tired smile. He still wasn’t sure what that meant.

 

The rest of his day had been a slow slog through flu jabs, and miserable adults and children alike. The highlight of his day came by means of one particular patient who John had to have restrained before the man caused serious harm to himself. The man was clearly dehydrated and delirious. Twice he’d lashed out, trying to get up and flee the hospital bed, and by the third time, John was ready to punch the poor sod, if only to incapacitate him long enough to treat his ailment. Instead, he’d carefully held his flailing arms until an orderly could get the velcro binders in place. After that, it had been as simple as starting an IV drip and to get the man’s fluids up. John had added a sedative, forcing the man to rest. Hopefully he would be coherent enough in a few hours to explain how he’d gotten to such a state.

 

The cause of John’s somewhat late arrival home on this particular afternoon had been on account of his taking another circuit of the area around his new flat, finding a park nearby, as well as several decent looking pubs, and enough take-aways to satisfy even the pickiest eater.

 

He hefted the plastic bag containing that night’s dinner up the steps and unlocked the matte black door. He still felt a bit out of sorts, this being his first full day in his new home. He wasn’t sure exactly what to expect, living with a man like Sherlock Holmes, but he could already tell it was going to be anything but boring. Bounding up the stairs, he opened the door to the kitchen and placed the bag of take-away containers on the old cedar table. He poked his head into the living room, and frowned to see it devoid of his flatmate. Looking behind him, he noticed the door to the back bedroom was ajar, a light shining through the gap, showing it as unoccupied as well. He shrugged. Maybe Sherlock had gone out. It wasn’t really any of his business, anyway. He smirked to himself as he realized he still had the man’s keys.

 

John set about unpacking the four containers, three of which contained enough curried chicken to satisfy his appetite for tonight, while still leaving an extra naan and fried paneer for tomorrow’s lunch. He eyed the last container, a full second order of chicken, and was just deciding on whether to put it in the fridge for Sherlock, when a loud thump sounded above his head, causing him to flinch rather violently. He was out the door and halfway up the stairs before he could blink, the ‘fight’ of his fight or flight reflexes winning out. Slowing his movements and keeping his jumpy muscles in check, he pulled up his military training to put himself into more of a defensive mode as he peeked his head over the edge of the railing, drawing breath slowly through his nose.

 

He heard another thump. Craning his neck as far as he could, he caught a glimpse through the partially-opened door of his bedroom, of the stocking-clad feet of someone lounging on his bed. The figure held a small penlight in one hand, flashing it back and forth as if reading across a page. Scent told John nothing: the only thing he could detect was the regular hay and peaches of his room, underlaid with a sandalwood soap fragrance. He repressed the growl that threatened to bubble up from his throat as he stalked down the short hallway to his room. His room. Who would dare to be in his territory? And what were they doing? Moving carefully, he pressed himself to the wall beside the door. There was no light aside from the one the stranger had, but despite this, he could clearly make out the intruder’s feet, one ankle crossed over the other at the foot of his bed. He took another deep breath, and upon exhaling, he flung himself forward, thrusting the door open,  his hand flicking on the light switch as he burst into the room. He halted just inside the doorway, teeth bared and ready to defend his territory, as the man on his bed gave an undignified yelp of surprise.

 

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed. “You startled me.” His eyes flicked over the panting, tense man that stood before him and smiled. “You’ve brought home curry. Excellent.” He propelled himself up off the bed, crossing the short distance to stand nearly toe to toe with John, easily towering over the shorter man. “What kind of injectable medicine is this?” he asked with an air of casual curiosity, holding out the turquoise box for John to see, as if there could be anything else he could be referring to. “I’ve never seen it before. It doesn’t look like insulin.” He held up one of the vials to the light as he gazed into its depths, slowly rotating the cylinder between his forefinger and thumb. John noticed that the top had been pulled off. “And it certainly doesn’t taste like anything I’ve come across before.” He looked back down at John, brow furrowed. “And there’s no label. I was going to test it once I got back downstairs but then I found this - “ he turned to reach for a book which lay on the bed behind him, and brought it up to wave in John’s face. “And I couldn’t stop reading.”

 

From the very moment John had discovered an intruder in his room, the anger and pain in his chest had begun to build. Once he had discovered the intruder to be Sherlock, who spoke so casually and unapologetically of the blatant invasion of privacy he had committed, the anger and pain began to build so quickly that John feared he would lose control of it. He had realized, initially, that he would be moving in with a slightly-eccentric so-called consulting detective, but had thought that, at the very least, basic considerations like the sacred right to privacy would be respected. Apparently, he was very wrong.

 

The tingling, electric feeling rose in him once again, tensing his muscles and relaxing his thoughts. A thousand scenarios played out in his mind, narrated by the caged pain, as Sherlock babbled on. The loudest of these scenarios involved pushing the other man backwards onto the bed and strangling him, but despite his inner desires, rationality won out. It wasn’t the best course of action at the moment.

 

When Sherlock brandished John’s notebook at him, waving it in his face as if to ensure that he saw it, the edges of his vision tinged red. The taller man was standing too close, looking down at the doctor expectantly, but then something happened. Sherlock instantly backed off, retreating further into the tiny room when John looked up and met his eyes with his own. It was as if the thing inside him was looking at Sherlock, now.

 

“Why are you in my room?” John asked softly. Despite the terrible rage that was still building and suffusing him with an unnatural warmth, the iron hard tone of his voice surprised him. It was deeper, more menacing than he’d ever heard it before. Something to write in the notebook - once he got it back from Sherlock, that is.

 

“I was curious,” Sherlock answered simply, eyes wide and not a little frightened. He held himself completely still, as though he expected running to be the exact opposite of what he should be doing. The lack of action on Sherlock’s part, and the subtle hint of submission made John’s smile deepen until it was wicked and cruel.

 

“Curious? You know what happened to the cat, right?”

 

“Well, of course, but satisfaction brought it - “

 

“Do not quote nursery rhymes at me, Sherlock!” John grated out through his teeth.  

 

“But you just - “

 

“Don’t!” John was seething now, his vision nearly completely red and his mind buzzing with thoughts of blood. Bit not good. “Don’t,” he repeated, quieter. His eyes flicked to the notebook that still remained clutched in Sherlock’s hand. “What did your keen mind gleen from my book?” he asked.

 

Sherlock swallowed, and John watched the movement in his neck with avid interest. A few steps closer and he could wrap his hands around that slender column and bring his lips to that hidden pulse point and then -

 

He closed his eyes and shook his head sharply.

 

There was a long pause before Sherlock quietly answered, “I’m not sure what to make of it. You speak as if there’s another being inside you. At first, I was certain you were writing the beginnings of a novel - not too badly, either - and I was less interested. But you wrote about Stamford, and the hospital, and me.” There was another pause, and John opened his eyes to see Sherlock staring down at the book in his hands, obviously perplexed by the contradiction of such a small volume containing such a large amount of information. He looked over suddenly, meeting John’s eyes again. The fear was gone now, replaced by curiosity. “How did you mean that my playing the violin brings you peace? And why would you have attacked Lestrade?”

 

John made a conscious effort to relax, to force down the part of himself that was spurring on his need to fight, to assert dominance and to take back what was his from this intruder in his territory. He concentrated on his breathing by taking a few controlled breathes as he narrowed his stance and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. The pain and anger was simmering just below the edge of his ability to deal with it, and the thirst blazed across the back of his tongue, stronger than he’d felt it since his time in the hospital. The tight control he maintained over his anger was fraying at the edges.

 

He reminded himself ruefully that he’d only been living here for one day.

 

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, his voice as calm and composed as he could compel it to be, though it still sounded strained and threadbare to his own ears. “I don’t understand it all myself. That - “ he gestured at the book in Sherlock’s hand, “is the only way I can come to terms with whatever this - “ he gestured at himself, “is.” He sighed, looking away, at the wall, at the floor, anywhere but into those clear blue eyes.

 

A silence settled over the room, with only the steady sound of their mixed breathing to disturb it. John risked a glance at Sherlock, and saw that he was staring back down at the book, as if it held all the answers to all the questions in the world, but in a language he couldn’t decipher. Just as John had started to gather himself back together, the anger having dissipated enough to remind him of their presence in his room - his room - he heard the sound of the front door being hurriedly opened and closed, followed by the bounding footsteps of someone rushing up to the first floor.

 

“Sherlock!” came the familiar shout of Lestrade. “I need to speak with you!”

 

The taller man grinned widely before thrusting the book back into John’s hands as he hurried past him, and through the bedroom door. He paused on the threshold to look back at the doctor, opening his mouth to speak before snapping it closed and practically bolting down the stairs, like an excited child on Christmas morning.

 

“Yes, yes, I can hear you. What do you want, Lestrade?” Sherlock’s put-upon voice drifted up the stairwell to where John stood, frozen to the spot.

 

John’s stance lasted only a short moment before he was suddenly all action again, busying his hands and mind as he replaced all of his few possessions  that Sherlock had rifled through. The turquoise case went back on top of the wardrobe. The notebook was returned to its home on the bedside stand, tucked back underneath the spy novel he read on the nights he had trouble sleeping. The wardrobe door was closed from where it had been left flung open against the wall.

 

A cold chill shot down his spine as he noticed the bottom drawer of the wardrobe was still slightly ajar. He wrenched it all the way open, and was relieved to find that it appeared as though nothing had been disturbed. Reaching underneath the stack of folded jumpers, his hand closed upon the plastic grip of his gun, and he sighed out the heavy breath as the relief washed over him. Making sure the weapon was again concealed by the innocuous jumpers, he closed the drawer.

 

Whilst the anger and pain still raged against its cage, and his vision was still clouded with red around the edges, he had, for the most part, managed to successfully subdue it. He pondered his current mental state for a moment before picking up the tiny vial that Sherlock had left on the desk in his haste to meet Lestrade downstairs. He looked at the clear liquid momentarily before turning to shut the door to his room, allowing himself some much needed privacy. He took down the case again, and pulled out another vial, along with a disposable syringe.

 

With trembling hands, he methodically gave himself another intravenous dose of the medication. It felt like ice water being injected into his veins: a sharp coldness that immediately began to numb the pain and ever-present thirst. He closed his eyes, savouring the sensation. He vaguely recalled Dr Motters mentioning that he might need to increase the dosage when he began living on his own again. Back to living amongst people. New factors and situations in his environment, as well as his body’s natural buildup of tolerance to the drug, would likely warrant a higher need. He’d hoped the man was wrong, but now it seemed that the extra medication was indeed necessary to quell the rage and make him feel half-way to normal. He sat still, listening to the indistinct murmuring of the two men downstairs, but making no effort to comprehend their speech. He knew that if he concentrated just a little harder, he’d be able to make out the words, but at this moment he didn’t want to be reminded of what he was, so he sat in relative silence for another few moments. Carefully, he packed up his case, and returned it to its place on the top of the wardrobe.

 

He opened the door of his room, thinking to go downstairs to bin the used syringe, but was instead startled to find Sherlock standing on the other side, hand raised as if about to knock.

 

“Yes?” John asked.

 

Sherlock’s  pale blue eyes quickly darted over him again, as if analysing his state before speaking. “You’re a doctor. A military doctor.”

 

“Yes?” John repeated, curious as to where this was going.

 

“Any good?”

 

“Very.”

 

“Seen a lot of injuries; violent deaths?”

 

John’s eyebrow rose of its own accord, but he answered anyway. “Enough for a lifetime.”

 

Sherlock’s smile was broad and a little bit manic. “Want to see some more?”

  
John’s answering smile was something feral, something that he couldn’t quite contain. He wondered suddenly what was wrong with him when he said, “Oh god, yes.”


End file.
